


back to you

by alotofthingsdifferent



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Retirement, life after hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alotofthingsdifferent/pseuds/alotofthingsdifferent
Summary: There are three games left in the regular season, and the Rangers haven’t been a playoff team in five years.  Tom thinks maybe it’s time.“You look good, Tommy,” Mike says by way of a greeting, and when he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners. There are a few more wrinkles there than Tom remembers, but he’s still the same Mike, still as handsome as ever.  Tom fills with a familiar warmth, the feeling he always gets when he sees Mike in person, and kicks at Mike’s feet under the table.“You’re going grey,” Tom teases, and Mike’s grin widens as he runs his fingers through his hair.





	back to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wargasms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wargasms/gifts).



> For wargasms, who wanted future Mike/Tom, after they're done playing, rekindling the relationship they had when they were with the Caps.
> 
> I hope this fits what you were looking for!

Tom’s knee bounces steadily under the table, his fingers drumming an off-beat rhythm on the sticky, laminated menu in front of him. He chews on his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth while he watches the door. His phone buzzes next to his hand with a text from his brother, and he thumbs it open quickly, shooting off a reply before locking the screen. When he looks up again, Mike is sliding into the seat across from him.

Tom’s not sure why he was so nervous. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Mike in years or something-- they get together at least once every few months, FaceTime even more often -- and they’ve always been friendly, even after Mike left the Caps and they ended the _relationship_ part of their friendship. When Mike retired a couple years back, Tom was there for his last shift on the ice, and when Tom started kicking the idea around himself, he’d called Mike for advice on when he knew it was time to hang up the skates.

And now here they are, sitting across from one another at a diner in New York City, Mike’s hair greying near his temples and the scruff on Tom’s face peppered with grey of its own. Tom is 36 years old, and he loves playing hockey. He still gets the same rush when he steps on the ice in a Rangers jersey as he did when he was 22 and playing with the Caps, and while he can’t imagine giving it up, he’s also tired, and there’s an ache in his knee that really never goes away. 

There are three games left in the regular season, and the Rangers haven’t been a playoff team in five years. Tom thinks maybe it’s time.

“You look good, Tommy,” Mike says by way of a greeting, and when he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners. There are a few more wrinkles there than Tom remembers, but he’s still the same Mike, still as handsome as ever. Tom fills with a familiar warmth, the feeling he always gets when he sees Mike in person, and kicks at Mike’s feet under the table.

“You’re going grey,” Tom teases, and Mike’s grin widens as he runs his fingers through his hair. 

It goes on like that through a greasy basket of fries and a few cold beers, the two of them trading weak jabs that Tom doesn’t even try to disguise as flirting. (He guesses Mike’s not trying to hide it either, if the way his ankle his hooked over Tom’s under the table is any indication.) 

They’d talked about this sometimes. About what things would be like when hockey was their past instead of their future. Joked about moving in together again, buying a house in Toronto and coaching youth hockey together. Tom’s afraid to hope that maybe Mike wasn’t just kidding, that maybe Mike _was_ his future, and had been all along. 

That it had taken them awhile to get here, but that this was always meant to be where they ended up.

Tom pays the check, and they share a cab back to his apartment, where Mike makes himself comfortable on the couch, a beer in his hand and his feet up on the cushions like he belongs there. It makes something ache deep in Tom’s chest, makes him want to press in close to Mike and kiss him, cup Mike’s face in his hands and take what he’s been wanting for the last ten years, but knew he couldn’t have.

“What?” Mike asks with an amused look on his face, shaking Tom from his thoughts. “Do I have something on my face?” 

“I’m done,” Tom replies, more sure of it than he’s ever been about anything. “I’m retiring at the end of the season.” Mike’s eyes follow him as he rounds the couch, shoving Mike’s feet out of the way so he can sit close, their hips pressed together and one arm slung around the top of the cushions, his fingertips grazing the back of Mike’s neck. 

Mike blinks, his cheeks flushing. “Tommy,” he says, then swallows. “What are you --”

Tom cuts him off, pressing his mouth to Mike’s like he’s been wanting to do since Mike slid into the spot across from him at the table earlier. Since Mike moved out of their apartment in DC, if he’s being honest, and at this point, honesty seems like the best policy. Mike makes a small sound before kissing back, his hand gripping Tom’s bicep tightly, like he’s afraid Tom’s going to get away.

“It’s always been you,” Tom says between kisses, dragging his lips along Mike’s jaw, nuzzling behind his ear. “Fuck, Latts, it’s been ten fucking _years_ and it’s still you.” He finds Mike’s mouth again, kisses him until they’re both breathless, closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Mike’s. “Tell me you feel the same,” he says, and if it sounds like he’s begging, he doesn’t even care.

Mike laughs softly, a warm sound that makes Tom’s stomach flip-flop. “Idiot,” he says fondly, and kisses Tom again. “Of course I do. You think I’d talk about buying a house in Toronto with you if I was just kidding?”

Tom lets out a puff of breath, relieved, and pulls back just enough that he can look in Mike’s eyes. “This is crazy, right? We can’t just -- pretend nothing’s changed, can we? Just move back in like everything’s the same?”

“Why can’t we?” Mike asks, reaching for Tom’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, Tommy. Nothing’s changed for me.”

“Except the grey hair,” Tom teases, and Mike laughs, his whole face lighting up with it. God, Tom loves him. 

He never stopped.

“So we’re doing this then,” Tom says, and Mike nods, his eyes dancing. Tom stands up, pulling Mike to his feet with him. “Think anything else has changed?” he asks, his voice low in Mike’s ear, fingertips teasing the soft skin beneath the hem of Mike’s shirt. 

“Hmm,” Mike hums, pressing a kiss to Tom’s neck. “Only one way to find out.”

(Mike is a little softer around the middle, and he’s more sure of himself than Tom remembers, but he still arches under Tom’s touch the same as he used to, still moans Tom’s name and threads his fingers through Tom’s hair when Tom’s mouth is on his cock.)

He still falls asleep nearly immediately after they fuck, and when Tom curls up behind him, kisses the back of his neck, it feels like he’s finally found his way home.

~

“You’re up early,” Tom says from the open patio door, and Mike looks up from his chair on the deck, the sun glinting off the lake and reflecting in his eyes. Mike hums, thoughtful, and takes a sip of coffee from the oversized mug he’s cupping in his hands. 

They’ve been living together again for six months, in a beautiful place on the lake, the perfect size for them. A large kitchen and living area perfect for entertaining, a sprawling deck overlooking the lake, and four good-sized bedrooms that they agreed out loud would be perfect for guests, but both knew what they really meant was “perfect for the possibility of a family”. 

Tom joins him on the deck, pulls a chair up close to Mike’s and steals the mug from his hands. Mike makes a noise of complaint, but lets Tom sip anyway. “Everything ok?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, taking the mug from Tom’s hands and setting it down at their feet. “I was just thinking.”

“Uh-oh,” Tom says, teasing. “That usually means work for me.”

Mike doesn’t smile. He staring at Tom intently, a glint in his eye, and Tom’s heart rate suddenly kicks up a notch. 

“Uh,” Tom says, clearing his throat, and he means to say something funny, to convince himself there’s not bad news coming, when Mike says, “Lets get married.”

Tom kicks over the mug at their feet, coffee spilling everywhere, dripping between the slats of the deck. “Shit,” he mumbles, leaning down to pick it up, but Mike’s laugh distracts him, and he sits up again, ignoring the mess in favor of gazing at the look of pure elation on Mike’s face.

“Marry me, Tommy,” he says, his hand coming to rest on Tom’s knee. His thumb draws lazy circles on Tom’s skin, and of course, of _course_ Tom wants to marry him.

“Yeah,” Tom replies, finally letting a smile split his face. “Yeah, Mikey, I’ll marry you. Took you long enough to ask, though.”

Mike laughs, the sound echoing around them in the quiet morning. “Been a long time coming, huh?”

“Yeah,” Tom says softly, covering Mike’s hand with his own. “But definitely worth the wait.”

(They get married in a small ceremony on the water, family and a handful of friends there in support. Not much changes, except that the second guest room soon becomes a nursery and they somehow manage to adopt two dogs before the baby is born. 

There’s plenty of ketchup in the fridge, and Tom wouldn’t have his life any other way.)


End file.
